Snapshots
by Misfit Soul
Summary: This fiction chronicles Cristina from birth to marriage,which in my world did happen.  It is told from her mother, Helen's perspective.  Please read and review.  Disclaimer: I own nothing.
1. Chapter 1

**One**

I sat down one day and looked through the photo albums I had shelved. For the first time in many years, I actually looked at these pictures. Some of them were very old now. In the far left album, there were pictures of me when I first immigrated here. As I continued flipping through the pages of snapshots, I began to remember so much that I had forgotten or perhaps wished to forget.

I remember the day she was born, my daughter. After ten hours of labor, the doctors placed a smiling baby girl in my arms. Even then, she had thick curly hair that seemed to flow in all directions. Her chubby cheeks shook when she laughed. I remember being amazed that this little thing in my arms could laugh so much, so much that even the dour nurse who refused to get me water smiled too.

The pride on my ex-husband's face when he walked in and picked her up erased some of the troubles we had dealt with. In that moment we were happy again, a flashback to our younger years…before everything happened. That giggling girl reached up her tiny fists and extended little fingers to caress her father's face. His eyes lit up and a smile broke out on his face.

He set her back in my arms. I remember that right then she grabbed his finger and held. She already loved him even at the age of one hour. I cradled her closer to me, reveling in the soft, smooth silkiness of her skin. The light touch of breath warmed me, reminding me that I had to make sure that breath never stopped. I was a mother.

Finally, her eyelids began to droop, her face a picture of serenity. My daughter was a thumb sucker I thought. Her face puckered up then, forehead nearly creasing in deep though. My daughter would be intelligent; she already had forehead wrinkles. I laughed at this notion, at how ridiculous I know I must sound to the nurses and to my husband.

I almost did not want to let go when the nurse gently picked her up to place her in a crib. I was afraid that they would take that pink baby away from me. So when they started to wheel her to the nursery, I protested, adamantly refusing to let her out of my sight. If she disappeared for just a moment, it might be like she never existed or as if she was a dream. They relented and left the crib next to my hospital bed, close enough that I could reach in and touch her.

Later after both my baby and I had slept, my ex-husband and I crowded around the crib. She was still sleeping, thumb firmly stuck in her mouth. Reaching in to touch her, I suddenly realized that we had not named her. I didn't know why then and I still do not, but for some reason the fact that my daughter was _nameless_ bothered me in an indescribable way.

"We need to name her," I said, whispering so she would not wake from her baby dreams.

"I know…"

We had thought about Sophie, Jessica, or Sarah, but none of those sounded right. None of them could grasp her little fingers reaching in the air or that laughter. They sounded off and we sat there for a few minutes, contemplating the important matter of naming.

After a few more minutes, she woke up and grabbed her father's finger again. He grinned again and looked at me.

"Let's call her Cristina."


	2. Chapter 2

He had taken her for two extra weeks so I could have a honeymoon with Saul. We had been polite and civil ever since our divorce two years ago, sharing custody week by week. The only reason that we, or at least I, held back any resentment was our daughter. Cristina was the link between us, the connection that kept alive a relationship that had died long ago. The only thing that was still ours.

Saul had waited in the convertible, knowing that my ex-husband disliked him. Cristina was clutching her father's neck, her head buried in his neck. The flyaway curls of her birth had softened to waves. Now her hair skimmed the edges of her face, glowing with an inner fire that lit up the dark until it gleamed. In those three weeks, I had missed Cristina fiercely.

"Her bag is by the door." I remember him saying those exact words, but I do not know why my mind chose to recall that particular sentence.

I nodded and watched him give her one last hug before gently untangling her arms from around his neck. When he set her on the floor so she could walk to me on her chubby little legs, I could not help but smile because my daughter was coming back to me. I remember that her brown eyes glanced at me just once before turning back to her father.

She clung to his leg, pouting. She had already stopped crying by then. A child who laughed, but never cried…I had marveled at that until the first time I saw her face twist and her eyes darken. She looked so much like her father then that I had to turn away. My daughter reminded me far too much of the man that I had left, and seeing the two of them together only increased the resemblance.

He whispered something to her. I don't remember what it was, but she smiled a small little grin and let go. She stood in front of him and tugged on his pant leg. Understanding, he leaned down and kissed her on the cheek and received a kiss himself. I remember that Cristina had never given those to me.

She walked toward me and when I reached to grab her hand, she reciprocated. That gesture meant so much to me at the time…the simple feeling of her hand enclosed within mine. I picked up her bag and we walked to the door of his townhouse. I nodded to him before I reached for the doorknob.

Cristina tried to pull me back and then broke the link when I resisted. She waved to her father and said, "Bye Daddy. I love you!" She ran to him again, giving him one more hug before walking out the door.

I remember that day because it was the day I discovered that my daughter, my beautiful Cristina loved her father more than me.


	3. Chapter 3

**Three **

It had been raining that day. I was decorating the living room when I received the call. I had dropped the phone and I remember sitting down on the newly upholstered couch. It was a beautiful amber and here I was sitting staring at the new rug which I had matched perfectly with the room. I was good at decorating and creating beauty, but what had just happened was unbelievable.

My daughter had been in a car accident…with my ex-husband.

I knew I should move and go to the car, but I remember picking the phone back up instead. I held it in between my fingers, clutching it as if it were my lifeline. I remember sitting there for at least five minutes before I managed to stand up and stumble awkwardly to the garage. I remember the pouring rain that clouded my vision that must have clouded his.

Had he swerved into an oncoming lane? Had another car hit him? Had he been speeding because I argued with him to bring Cristina home earlier? There had been no details in the phone call, just a summons. Come immediately. The rain splattered against the windshield as I played each and every possible scenario out in my head.

When I arrived, there were paramedics and police officers rushing around the scene. I remember walking straight toward his car, a beat up blue sedan. The hood was crushed and one of the wheels was still spinning slowly. Another car had flipped over. I remember a paramedic zipping up the body bag as I passed it.

At first, when I saw him there was just a little bit of blood coming from his mouth. Then I came closer. The steering column had impaled him. He was really and truly dead. I remember feeling that this was not real or that he was trying to spite me again as he did when he showed the casual affection he could use with Cristina. I remember thinking that he could not truly be dead.

I was wrong.

When I could breathe again, I noticed an officer trying to pull my daughter from the car. What if she was hurt? I pushed him out of the way. She had unbuckled her seatbelt and had her arms around her father. Her hands were bloody from attempting to stop the bleeding. She must have realized he was dead because she had stopped and instead wrapped her arms around his neck like she had done when she was a little kid.

Tears coursed down her face as she hugged him. I remember the officer shouting at me to get her out of the car, but at that moment, I could not bear to tear my daughter away from the man she had loved so much. She was nine. A girl her age should never have had to deal with this.

Finally, I sat down in the car. When I touched her, she flinched, clinging tighter to her father. I tried again and she turned to stare at me with pain-filled eyes, the broken eyes of a little girl who had lost her hero. I whispered her name, trying to convince her to let go on her own, but those fingers would not loosen and she rested her head on her father's shoulder.

Almost crying myself, I gently began to disentangle her from the body. She fought at first, but then went limp. For a moment, I remember thinking that perhaps she too was injured, but nothing physical was wrong with her. Before I could pull her off, she leaned in again and whispered something in his ear before kissing his cheek. Then she let go and I pulled her into my arms.

I remember holding her while I gave the police officer my information. I held her tightly, afraid that she would disappear. Her sobs stopped, but I knew she was still crying. Yet that whole time she stayed silent. She did not speak to me, did not whimper, nor groan in pain. Her bloody hands clenched in fists on my back. I held her, but she did not hold me.

I remember walking away from the scene in the pouring rain, holding my daughter. I remember walking away from his body, the man my daughter had loved. But most of all, I remember what she said when we came home.

"He died because of you."


	4. Chapter 4

**Four **

I sat outside the dressing room, tapping my fingers on the notebook as I waited for her. We had put off buying her dress because she had homework, or equestrian practice or who knows what else. She was busy, my daughter. So busy that she no longer spent time with her mother, not that she had that much in the first place. This outing was a necessity. The following weekend was the celebration of Cristina becoming a Bat Mitzvah.

Cristina as usual had barely been interested, but this was important to Saul. He was a traditional man, a man of his faith. I had enjoyed planning the ceremony. It was a chance to outdo all those women who had condescended to invite Cristina and me to their children's parties. It would be a grand occasion I remembered thinking.

I knocked on the door. I knew that pink dress would look beautiful especially with the lace. She opened the door and stepped out. I chose to ignore the look of resentment on her face, instead examining the fit of the dress. It fit her well; my daughter was beautiful even if she was growing bonier by the year. Such a shame.

"You look beautiful."

"I'm wearing pink." I remember the exact tone of her voice, spiteful and angry.

"You look beautiful in pink." I was trying, honestly trying.

"I won't once I throw up on it."

Ever since he died, Cristina had become more withdrawn in herself. I remember that by ten she no longer laughed as she used too. Within that year, those full belly laughs were replaced by jeering, sardonic chuckles. They did nothing to warm my heart like the giggles of her childhood. I missed them then. I still miss them now.

"Then we can spend a few more hours looking for your dress." She stayed silent on this one.

After I continued to fuss with her dress, Cristina said, "Why do I even have to do this?"

" Saul wants you too. It means a lot to him."

"I don't believe in God or the commandments."

" Cristina!"

"It's true." She turned away. I remember or at least I believe this really happened. "If God existed, he would still be alive." Three years later and she had never stopped thinking about him.

"You will do this celebration, Cristina." I had put far too much work in, too much time and effort for her to stop now.

"You only want me to so you can show up all those women." She was perceptive and biting when she needed to be back when she cared enough to argue with me.

" Cristina Yang, I don't know what I did to deserve a daughter like you." She muttered something under her breath that my mind chose to forget. "But you will be present and you will smile and pose for pictures and be religious as long as you live in my house."

"Don't you mean Saul's house?"

" Cristina Yang…" I trailed off dangerously, eyes narrowing. She nodded her head, but that look of rebellion was still in her eyes.

Let's not be under any illusions. From that day, I knew my daughter did not care about anything I cared about. She did not care about Saul, looking beautiful, or clothes. I had to care about it for her. It was my duty as her mother to convince her of the value of these traits. She would need these. What would happen when she became older?

I remember thinking if she wasn't careful, she would end up alone and bitter, bereft of love. I remember vowing to myself that I would not allow that to happen.

Never.


	5. Chapter 5

**Five **

I woke up abruptly when I heard a door slamming downstairs. I grabbed my robe and hurried down the stairs, leaving Saul to sleep. There were lights on in the laundry room. I remember grabbing a knife just in case it was a burglar. I brandished it forth as I pushed open the door. I remember the person had on a heavy jacket and jeans that were far too large for their body. With a cry, I stabbed the knife at the air near him.

The person turned around, letting out a yell. It was Cristina. "Holy shit! What are you doing with a knife?"

" Language, Cristina!" She smelled horrible. "Why are you home? Tonight was your prom."

"I left because my date was an ass." She scowled. I remembered thinking that nice boy, Daniel Adelstein could never have been rude. After all, he had brought Cristina and me flowers.

"Maybe if you didn't smell like that he wouldn't have been rude," Unthinkable, did she not use that Chanel I bought her for tonight?

I remember her sighing one of those adolescent sighs before saying, "He threw up on me and was practically assaulting me Mother. Just because he was capable of charming you…"

Assaulting her? "Was something wrong at the restaurant? Did you get food poisoning?"

"No, Mother, he got drunk, threw up on me, and groped me. Can we move on now? I want to take a shower." Her arms were crossed over her chest, almost as if she was reliving the moment.

My daughter did not deserve this. "No we cannot move on. If that boy did that to you, I am marching over to his house and—"

"No. Don't bother. It's fine. Whatever." She had never allowed me to protect her to be motherly and I remember that day as not being different at all.

She trudged out of the room and up the stairs in her smelly, overly large clothes. Her hair was still half up in the curls that I had ordered her to get. She had to look proper for her prom after all. That is what American girls did. They went to prom with clean-cut dates who smiled and said all the right things to the parents. They went to a beautiful restaurant where the food was divine and then off into their limos to the actual event. There they were supposed to dance and have fun. Then afterwards, the girls, the nice ones anyways, would have a sleepover and giggle about the night.

That was how it was supposed to be.

I remember feeling sad that Cristina had been robbed of this experience. She was a senior. The year before she had not gone, instead choosing to stay home and study for her examinations. It had broken my heart last year to see her eyes cold and dark. I wanted her to get something happy out of prom, not a drunk boy throwing up on her. It just wasn't fair.

I remember thinking before I went back to bed that for once I wished that my daughter could just be a normal, happy girl.


	6. Chapter 6

**Six **

I remember shooing her from the new apartment. Her apathetic replies to my questions had grown irritating. My miserable daughter clearly still did not understand the importance of beauty in the home. Apparently, graduation had not been enough to change that particular idea of hers. So she had left, no doubt to sneak into the hospital early. Her career was far too important to her, but what was a mother to do?

I remember browsing the catalogs, leaving sticky note when I saw something interesting. Ideas had already formed in my mind on the flight here. I knew how I would decorate her apartment; all I needed was the furniture and the decorative pieces to suit it. My daughter, miserable though she may be, deserved a beautiful place to call home.

I remember thinking that I should use wood. Wood was inflexible and strong like Cristina. Wood, unlike metal, still had more flexibility to it. It had warmth that the sleekness of metal lacked. I knew Cristina was emotionally closed off because of that day so long ago, but I didn't want her to become Icold/I, so wood it would be. Perhaps a nice chest of drawers from oak and the coffee table and end tables would need to match it.

The lamps needed warmth too. Soft colored shades that would lighten the room, but not be overly bright…yes that would be good. The lamps would need darker bases for balance. I remember thinking that Cristina would hate it if I used softer colors like purple or pink so I refrained except for her bathrooms. She needed at least some softness in her life, didn't she?

I flicked through the pages for a few minutes before I found a suitable couch. It had slight patterns in a dark grey-green of flowers, but nothing truly overt. My daughter was an under-stated young woman and I felt I should respect that natural tendency of hers. She would need more than one chair of course. Red! She had always looked beautiful in red. I found a beautiful red armchair, one that she could place right by the fire place. I imagined her curling up there with medical textbooks and a cup of coffee.

Only the little details were left. I found grey-green curtains that would match the pattern on the couch. I added a few vases though I know none of them would ever hold flowers. They were still pretty and despite my knowledge, there was a kernel of hope in me that someday maybe those vases would hold flowers.

The last step was the paintings. Seattle was a hard, cold, rainy city. I didn't understand why my daughter had chosen here of all places to live her life when that nice professor of hers Dr. Marlow had offered her a spot in California. I wanted to give her something of nature, something of sunlight because here she would lack that. The paintings needed to be tranquil because I knew her life would become hectic.

I remember a few days later when everything had been delivered and everything had been set according to my tastes, she came in. It was the first time I had allowed her entrance into her apartment since I had told her to leave. I was waiting for a smile or some acknowledgement. Instead it was a grumbled thanks and a darkening of her eyes.

My own smile fell. I remember feeling foolish to hope that Cristina would ever acknowledge the beauty of her apartment or the effort I had put in to decorating it. I remember thinking how could I believe my daughter would ever care about these things. I knew then that within a week, her usual clutter and mess would cover the carefully chosen furniture. I knew this.

Foolish.


	7. Chapter 7

**Seven **

My daughter had an ectopic pregnancy. The doctors had explained it to me or tried to anyway. I did not pay attention because my daughter was Ipregnant/I. My emotionally closed off daughter had gotten pregnant. The statement had bewildered me the first time I heard it over the crackly static of the phone. She didn't even have a boyfriend that I was aware of anyways. Cristina had hated connecting with people and she was pregnant.

Unbelievable.

What was worst then finding out that my daughter was in surgery was not learning about the pregnancy from her. No doubt she had been planning an abortion, planning to rob me of the chance to play with my grandchildren. I remember thinking of all of this on the flight back home. Three days with my daughter was certainly enough for the both of us. We had never mixed well, she and I.

Cristina and I had sat in that room fighting a battle of wills. In the end she had won. She never told me who was the father, the man who had impregnated my daughter. I desperately wanted to know the identity of the man who had left my daughter alone in her time of need. I needed to know so I could find him. Of course, there were other possibilities…I remember thinking at the time that maybe she did not know who the father was. My daughter had never been promiscuous, but things could change. People changed.

Even when she broke down that night, crying for the first time in seventeen years, even then she had stayed silent on the topic. Her sobs had startled me. Cristina did not cry. Large displays of emotion had never been common for her not since that rainy night. I sat surprised there, utterly confused at my daughter's state of mind. She must have cared a great deal about this man. She had cursed and raged at her friends until she had collapsed on her hospital bed, spent from all the crying.

Then that handsome doctor had come in. I remember thinking it was odd at first that he would bother coming to see an intern, but then he cradled her in his harms. At that moment I knew the answer. Cristina did not need to tell me that the man holding her and kissing her forehead was the father.

Why she had not admitted this to me, I did not know. I remember feeling hurt on the plane. It wasn't as if the man was some homeless man from the street. He was a doctor, most likely respected and rich. A dignified man, there was nothing wrong with that whatsoever. It hurt me a little that she could not give me these details of her lives, that I had to find out about her pregnancy through a phone call and that I found out about him by invading such a private moment.

It hurt that she did not tell me things, but I had seen something that night. She had changed in some immeasurable way because my daughter had allowed that handsome doctor to hold her.

I remember smiling on the rest of the flight back because I had seen my daughter content, almost happy.


	8. Chapter 8

**Eight**

Their friends still held the reception. One of them, I do not remember his name, said they might as well enjoy the food. At the time, I did not notice the twinkle in his eye or his slight smirk as he stared at one of Cristina's confused bridesmaid and one of Preston's groomsmen. I should have paid attention instead of commiserating with Jane. We had been robbed of seeing our only children getting married. In fact, at that moment we did not even know where they were.

I remember that we had been drinking wine, glass after glass, for nearly an hour when the doors opened. Cristina's ma—well, former maid of honor, strolled through the doors, laughing. Preston's replacement best man had his arm around her. I turned away. How could they be so boisterous at a time like this? My daughter was supposed to get married! I remember that they had left the chapel as well. I had thought that they were chasing down the pair of them to bring them to their senses. Was that not their duty as the maid of honor and best man?

The look in Preston's eyes when Cristina walked away from him was heartbreaking. He had seemed to crumple, to shrink into himself. He had stumbled down the aisle, whispering her name. I remember sitting there, completely shocked. I knew that Cristina had not been excited for the wedding, but after 100 dresses and all the hoops Jane had forced my miserable daughter to jump through…_now_, of all times she had decided to give up and walk away.

It was a tragedy.

I gulped down another glassful of wine. I remember the stunned look on Jane's face. I turned around slowly. My glass shattered on the floor. I remember that moment so clearly. My daughter seemed suffused with some inner glow, a soft smile on her face. Her hand was clasped in Preston's. He was still in his tuxedo, every bit the dashing doctor. The grin on his face was a mile wide.

"We're married!" He shouted it as if he wanted the entire world to hear him.

I remember Jane's face twisting in fury, but I grabbed her elbow before she could berate them. They were far too happy and she could not be allowed to ruin the glow in my daughter. Our children were married. She had to realize that. Even if…even if they had not wanted us there…even if they had chosen their friends over us, the fact remained that our children were married.

When she was sufficiently calm, we and our husbands walked over to them. I gave them my heartfelt congratulations. Those words broke my heart. I had not seen my daughter married. My dear Cristina with her wavy hair and her emotional problems was married and I had not been there. She had not wanted me there.

I bit back reproving comments. My daughter was happy. All I had ever wanted was for her to be happy. I should have known better than to think that I could create that happiness for her on my own. I did not know how to do that, but Preston did. Preston had somehow managed to penetrate her walls and make her happy. For that I was forever grateful to him.

I remember smiling that night as I sat back down to let the flurry of congratulations continue. I smiled because I knew somewhere deep down that my daughter had found a man that could make her laugh and love again.


End file.
